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... ld the thin bamboo picked up by the roadside in his hand. He couldn't stop, the wind swept through the trickling stream, the air was so fresh, he seemed to return to that time, groping for crabs in the river with children of the same age as himself, no more or no less, but occasionally I was happy to catch one. , But come back to my senses, there is no fresh air, and there is no so-called breeze.
In this wasteland city, the air is turbid, with the stench of rotting corpses, and the win ...
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